


Five Times Varric Ran Away from His Feelings (and The One Time He Didn't)

by windofderange



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5076691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windofderange/pseuds/windofderange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There you go, running away from your feelings again.”  Bianca’s words stung in his ears worse than the knife wounds in his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Because of the Merchants' Guild

**Author's Note:**

> Because at this point, I'm more committed to this ship than to fighting Corypheus.
> 
> Also, I'm too lazy to find all of Varric's original dialogue, so some is from memory.

“There you go, running away from your feelings again.”

Bianca’s words stung in his ears worse than the knife wounds in his side.  Varric pressed his shoulder into the cold, stone wall of the public house bedroom, rewrapping the bandages around his waist, waves of pain washing over him again.

“There goes Varric Tethras, running away from his feelings again.  How can you be such a romantic and such a commitment-phobe all at once?”

She had been on the brink of tears, her eyes bloodshot and her face red, like she’d been staring into her fire for too long.  He could still feel the heat of her hands on his, feel the pressure in his chest as he tried to pull her in for one more kiss, only to have her tear herself away, the words splitting out of her.

 _Does it really count as ‘running away from your feelings’ if you’re following a restraining order?,_ his inner monologue shot back.  Of course, now he thinks of a defense, miles away, out of the range of her perfect laugh and her piercing words.  All he had managed in the moment was “there’s no other way.”  He had wanted to say more, to find the words to explain how much he hated the choice he was making, to promise her that he never live to forgive himself, but that it was the only way, but the assassins hired by the merchants’ guild were already on top of them.  They had chased him for nearly two days before finally him letting him escape into the nearest human town.

 _Restraining order,_ he told himself again.   _Must stay at least three hundred miles from each other at all times_.  And the assassins with their knives and their propensity to using him as a pincushion had made it pretty clear that this wasn’t the kind of merchants’ guild decree that could be ignored or solved with a few greased palms.  The last thing the guild wanted was two surface dwarves conspiring to bring dwarven smithing to the surface.  And they were going to do everything in their power to see that stopped.

“Varric Tethras, running away from his feelings.”

Varric dropped himself back on the thin, straw-stuffed bed, grabbing the bottle of cheap Antivan rum he had bought downstairs and downing several slugs.   _What did she mean, running away from his feelings?  Hadn’t he proposed?!  Hadn’t he asked to spend the rest of their lives together?!_  She was the one who had pulled away, said they needed to think about what they were doing.

Alright, so he proposed knowing full-well that her family would never allow it.  But that didn’t make it any less genuine.  He did love Bianca.  He did genuinely want to be with her.  It was taking a legal injunction and a band of knife-wielding assassins to drive him away.   _How is that not romantic?_

Maybe that’s the point, though.  Varric could spin romantic tales until nugs flew, but when it came to being in a relationship, to the real-life choice of making space for someone else in his life?  That was harder.  Wasn’t there a part of him that was happy with how things had ended?  How romantic it was?  That now he and Bianca could be star-crossed lovers, meeting in secret, sending each other love notes and poems, forever together but forever apart?  No quarrelling about whose career came first.  No bickering over whether to build a new wing onto the house or buy up another thaig.  She’d never see him stagger home from the bar, spewing sea shanties, or crumpled over his writing desk, cursing his way through a draft.  She’d never have a chance to grow tired of him.

“Shit,” he muttered, collapsing back onto the bed, one hand wrapping around the familiar grip of the crossbow that he’d already begun to think of by her name, the bottle of rum, now more than half empty, sliding from the other hand onto the floor.

There was nothing to do about it now.  He was gone.  He couldn’t go back, at least not without risking all of his internal organs.  Bartrand had been begging him for months to help him put together an excursion from Kirkwall.  It had been a while since he’d been home, but it was always a good place to spend a few years.  He’d probably be able to pick up a few more commissions from his publishers, maybe branch out into romance and erotica like they’d been pestering him to.  Maker knew he would have enough pent up arousal to put on the page.

 


	2. Because Kirkwall was burning

_Damn Bartrand_ , Varric grumbled in his mind.   _Damn Bartrand, damn Anders, damn Knight Commander Meredith, and damn me, while we’re at it.  Damn all of Kirkwall, all that’s left of it, anyways._

The city was crawling with soldiers from the Chantry.  Not just Templars, the sight of whom now set Varric’s hair standing on end, but some crowd in extra-shiny armor calling themselves the Seekers.  Some super secret Chantry inquisitors.  A pair of Orlesian girls in matching purple chestplates had dragged him from the bar and tossed him into a barren room, with nothing but a plain wooden table and a pair of chairs, refusing to tell him anything but that he was “under investigation by the Chantry.”

_Fuck the Chantry._  He was a dwarf.  According to the Chantry, he wasn’t even worth spitting on.  What the fuck did they want with him?

_It’s Hawke_ , he told himself.   _It’s got to be Hawke_.  He had waited until he got word from her that she was safely away from Kirkwall before publishing the last installment of _The Champion of Kirkwall_ , but he still knew it was risk.  Someone was bound to come looking for her sooner or later.  

Maybe that’s why he’d done it.  What had happened in Kirkwall was his fault.  He should have known better than to trust Bartrand, to believe that anything good could come out of the Deep Roads.  If they had just left well enough alone, if he had just realized what was going wrong with Bartrand earlier, maybe the Knight Commander wouldn’t have found the red lyrium.  Maybe Anders’ crazy crusade could have been contained.  Maybe Hawke would have been able to keep the whole thing ... the whole _city_ … from exploding.

She had saved them, saved as much of the city as she could, and had gotten out relatively unscathed.  With any luck, she had managed to track down Fenris, and the two of them were off in the mountains someplace fighting crime or righting wrongs or fucking each other’s brains out.  Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, the very least Varric could do was to keep them safe, and to keep the Chantry from ever finding them.

“Varric Tethras.”

The door swung slowly open, and the fire lights from the street, bouncing off the approaching figure’s silver armor, temporarily blinded him.  The voice was husky but feminine, with an unmistakable Western roll.  Orlesian, maybe even Nevarran.

“Why the hell am I here?” he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back, waiting for his sight to return to study her face.

“As I believe you have been informed, you are under investigation from the Chantry with regard to your association with the Champion of Kirkwall and your role in the events leading up to the Circle rebellion in Kirkwall.  I am Lady Seeker Pentaghast.  I have been sent by order of the Lord Seeker and the most holy Divine herself to look into these matters.”

_Pentaghast_.  Varric recognized the name.  Old time dragon slayers.  For all he knew, she was of no real relation, just some distant cousin, but damn did it fit.  The woman before him seethed like dragon fire, her eyes sharp and striking, her ebony hair sheared short, cutting like obsidian veins across her sharp, cream-colored cheeks.  Her expression set on him like the gaze of an old god stalking its prey, somehow managing to send a shiver up his spine and blood racing through his shorts all at once.  He didn’t even usually find humans attractive, but as she paced the room, staring down at him, he found his pulse racing, sweat pooling on his palms.

_It’s just frustration_ , he told himself.   _Annoyance_.

“You dragged me in here about that?!” he barked.  “Hate to break it to you, Lady Seeker, but you could have found that out on your own.  I literally wrote the book on the subject.”

“We are aware,” the Seeker replied, drawing a copy of _The Champion of Kirkwall_ from her saddlebag and dropping it unceremoniously on the table between them.

“Aw, you’re a fan!” Varric continued, brushing his fingers over the well-worn pages.  “So, what, you brought me here to autograph it?”

“This is a work of fiction,” the Seeker replied sharply, “I want the truth.”

“You want the truth?” Varric aped.  “And you thought dragging me here against my will was the best way to get it?”

“The Chantry is investigating this matter.   _All_ city laws have been waived.  I’m certain you understand what that means, Master Tethras.”

“Everything I know is in the book.  I may write fiction for the most part, Seeker, but in this case, even I couldn’t make this stuff up.”

“Very well,” the Seeker replied, leaning against the wall.  “Then tell me again what happened.”

Varric sighed.   _Damn Bartrand, and damn me.  This was our doing, and if this is the penance for it, then Maker help me, I’ll keep them running down dead ends, Hawke, for as long as I can.  For the rest of our lives, if that’s what it takes._

“Alright, Seeker.  So you want to know what really happened to Hawke?  Let me tell you a story.”

 


	3. Because it had to be Swords & Shields

_Swords & Shields._  It had to be _Swords & Shields_.  The ridiculous, cringe-worthy, heaving-bosoms-and-throbbing-codpieces erotica nonsense he had grudgingly agreed to write because his publishers were “so certain!” it would sell, and then it lingered in bookstores like a collection of erotic poems about fungus and crown-rot.  And Lady Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast was a fan.

To be fair, he knew she liked his work.  That much had become apparent even when she was interrogating him.  She hadn’t just read _The Champion of Kirkwall_ to mine it for information about Hawke.  The rest of the Seekers might have, but the way she read out passages, the way her fingers lingered on the edge of pages before she put down the book - he knew what it was like to love a book, and Seeker Pentaghast loved that book.  But _Swords & Shields_?  The Inquisitor had asked about it like she had no idea what it was; not surprising, since it was hardly the sort of thing to be allowed in a Circle library.  In general, the Chantry and the Templars tried to keep the mages from getting worked up in any sense of the word.  But she said Cassandra had been downright horrified to be spotted reading it, bumbling and blushing as she admitted she was hooked.  Blushing!

The image lingered in his mind even as he skimmed through the last volume, desperately trying to recall what he had intended to write next.  Cassandra.  Blushing.  Red flushed across her pure white cheeks, the words breaking, breathless, maybe a few muttered curses in her native tongue as she struggled to explain herself.  He tossed himself down at his writing desk, reading back through the last love scene between the noble Knight Commander and her wayward rogue.

Maybe Cassandra had done this, as well.  In Skyhold, she had a private bedroom in one of the towers.  Maybe that’s why she disappeared sometimes in the early evenings, when they made it back before sundown, while the others settled back in Herald’s Rest, playing cards or challenging Leliana and the Bull to drinking contests.  Maybe she would curl up with the next volume, her face flushed, feeling that flush spread across her lean frame as she read, revelling in the sensual images and the racing of her own heart.

His own pulse quickened, as well, as he thought about it.  With the Seekers, she would have slept in a barrack, like the Templars, with almost no privacy.  Perhaps she would sneak away, claiming to go riding or hiking across the lush Orlesian countryside, finding a private place in the shadow of some tremendous green tree root, maybe in the coolness beside a babbling brook, stripping off her armour and spreading out in the damp grass in only her cotton underthings, passionate love scenes hanging like dew in the air around her until the sky was dyed pink and she’d rush back to the fortress, hiding her delight in her secret outings.

_Shit, Varric, get over yourself_ , his inner monologue snapped.  It’s still ridiculous erotica nonsense.  It’s not as though a Seeker would have read much of the genre and have some point of reference for what’s good and what’s bad.  She had clearly found his work because of his association with Hawke - so she’d read some of his other stuff and gotten hooked.  Just because she could get hot and bothered from the steamy exchanges of the Knight Commander and the King of the Thieves Guild doesn’t mean she’d feel the same way about…

It wasn’t even worth thinking.  He leaned back in his seat, letting a wave of annoyance and self-loathing wash the fire from his veins.  After all, this was Cassandra Pentaghast, Lady Seeker and Right Hand of the Divine he was fawning over like one of her overeager corporals.  Stalwart.  Stubborn.  Passionate.  A woman of unwavering faith, who was still willing to be declared a heretic of the Chantry in order to do what she thought was right.  A Chantry Seeker who found it in herself to trust a mage who fell out of a rift in the sky, not just letting her live, but making her Grand Inquisitor.  The woman who had dangled him from the rafters of Herald’s Rest for having the audacity to lie to her, only to turn around and fight to save him and Hawke from the Red Templars because she would never let her own feelings compromise her duties.

Still, it did make for a good scene.  Perhaps in the next installment, the Knight Commander could take to sneaking out on her own, laying in the long grass on the hills behind the fortress, thinking of her King of Thieves and how his hands felt, the warmth of his body against hers.  And once again, Swords & Shields could serve as an outlet for his own frustrations.  After all, that was the only reason it existed in the first place.

Varric took a deep breath, pulling out a stack of parchment and a fresh pen nib, and started to write.  At least he’d gotten the Inquisitor to agree that he got to be there when she gave the next volume to Cassandra.  At least he’d get to see her blush.  



	4. Because Hawke was gone.

_Damn it, Hawke.  Why did you have to do it?_

Varric sat alone at one of the small, wooden tables on the upper level of Herald’s Rest, beside the railing Cassandra had almost thrown him over for lying to her, an empty pint glass and a blank stack of papers before him.  The Inquisitor had offered to stay with him, but he’d told her that he needed to write some letters.

And he did.  The Inquisitor said she’d contact Hawke’s family herself, but Varric knew he should write to them, as well, send his condolences.  And then there were all of the others.  Their friends.  The people who Hawke had helped.  Had saved.  But he didn’t even know where to start.

Aveline was still in Kirkwall, she would be easy to get in touch with, still serving in the city guard.  She sent him updates from time to time, ostensibly to help maintain his network for the Merchants’ Guild, but really, he knew she’d just gotten used to having him to vent at.  In her last letter, she had implied that Anders have returned, as well, and that she had set him up with a new identity so he could help clean up some of the mess he’d caused.

He’d heard from Merrill a few times, as well.  She’d even bumped into the Inquisition, helped Solas identify some elven doo-hickies that helped keep back the rifts. Solas was probably still in touch with her; he seemed like a reliable pen-pal, could probably pass along a letter.

Isabela was harder.  Rumor had it that the Siren’s Call still made port in Kirkwall from time to time, not to mention in some of the towns north in the Vimmark Mountains, where Hawke and Fenris had been hiding out.  Iif he sent word to all of the bars along the docks, it would probably get back to her eventually.  Although that did raise the issue of what would happen once Isabela found out that Hawke was…

Isabela had never been the most reliable person, but she had a soft spot for Hawke, and Varric knew the two of them had remained … close, even after Hawke met up with Fenris after Kirkwall exploded.  Isabela was liable to blame him, and the Inquisition, and a lot of people could end up with blades in their backs before he managed to calm her down.

And that’s to say nothing of Fenris.  Varris shuddered, remembering every time he’d seen Fenris charge into a fight, the lines of lyrium etched into his skin glowing with silvery light, flooding his wiry little elven frame with enough power to swing his enormous hammer, that big, silver hammer that was almost bigger around than Varric, easily big enough to squash him like a bug when he found out that Varric had turned and run through a hole in reality without dragging the woman they both counted as their best friend back through with him.

_Maybe it wouldn’t even be that bad, being squashed like a bug.  Maybe that’s what should happen…_

“Varric?”

Cassandra wasn’t usually able to sneak up on people.  Even in battle, she usually appeared with a bellow and a quaking shield.  Clearly it hadn’t been her intention to surprise him - his jolt caused her to stumble, spilling beer across her hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t intend to ... “ she started, putting down one of the pints.  “I saw your drink was empty, thought you could use another.”

“Yes, nothing like a depressant when you’re already depressed,” Varric groused.

“Right, perhaps it was not so appropriate.  I’m sorry, I just thought…” she started, her words breaking.

“No, I’m sorry,” Varric said, watching the pain and disappointment etch itself into her face and instantly hating himself more.  “Thank you.”

“I also wanted to say…” Cassandra said, clearly searching for the words, “Varric, I’m truly sorry.  I know much Hawke meant to you.  It was an honor to serve alongside her, but I am truly sorry that I brought her into this.  And I am so sorry for your loss.”

Her words hitched, and Varric felt his heart break again, fighting back the sobs that threatened to break through and never subside as he said, “It’s not your fault.  Hawke would never had stayed away, and I was the one who brought her in.”

“You should not blame yourself,” Cassandra replied, the words warm and soft, pouring out of her like Nevarran wine, “As you said, Hawke would never have stayed away.  She truly was a hero.”

Varric nodded, “That’s kind of you to say.  And yes, she … was…”

His voice faltered again.  He wanted someone else to blame, the Inquisitor or Warden Stroud, for letting Hawke stay behind.  The Inquisitor had said that Hawke insisted, that she had said “Stopping Corypheus was my responsibility, too.  I’m just holding up my end.”  

He could almost hear her voice saying it...

“I apologize for interrupting your night,” Cassandra said, the other drink still in her hand. “I can leave you alone.”

“Thanks,” Varric said, feeling deflated.  She turned to go, but he called her back, saying, “Cassandra!  Really, thank you.”

She nodded, the words seeming to hang in the air between them.  Finally, she said, “You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you call me by my first name before.”

He laughed, thinking to himself how many times he’d said it to himself.  “Well, using your title always just seems more appropriate.  I’d be terrified for you to think I don’t respect you.”

She laughed, her face lightening. “Well, I’m glad we’ve gotten that sorted out.  From now on, you are welcome to use my name, and I will take it for granted that you do not, nor have you ever, respected me or my title.”

Laughter came pouring out of Varric, breaking through the waves of tears and leaving his sides aching.  “Please, Lady Seeker Pentaghast, you wound me.  I have nothing but respect for you and the Chantry.  Please, join me.”

She smiled, settling down opposite him.  “Thank you, Master Tethras.”

They sunk back into silence, and he watched the delicacy with which her fingers, usually wrapped around an axe grip, traced circles in the condensation on her glass.

“Cassandra?” he asked softly.

“Hmm?”

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve lost people before, people close to you?”

She nodded, her expression darkening.  “My parents, although I recall very little of them.  I remember more about my brother, Anthony.  I remember feeling as though I would never recover, that there would never be a day in which I did not wake up each morning and fall asleep each night missing him.”

“When my brother died, I was so angry with him, angry that he had lied to me, angry that he had endangered half of Kirkwall just to make money, I don’t think I even had space in my brain to miss him.”

“I don’t believe that,” Cassandra interjected.  “You do not strike me as someone who could not mourn his own brother.”

Varric sighed.  “I guess. But it wasn’t like this.  I guess I had the anger to hold on to.  But now it’s just like, sitting at the edge of this giant chasm, and I can’t find a reason to keep from falling in.”

“We are your reason,” Cassandra replied sharply.  “The Inquisition.  The Inquisitor.”

“You,” Varric added.

Cassandra’s cheeks flushed.   _It’s from the drink_ , Varric told himself.

“How long was it?” he asked.  She crooked an eyebrow in response.  “With Anthony.  How long was it before the mourning wasn’t the only thing you felt?”

“It was not an instantaneous change.  It started that when I missed him, I didn’t just think of how he’d died.  I thought of how he trained me to handle a sword, or the way we used to pass each other sweets after our uncle’s galas, or how we would sing the Chant of Light when the palace rooms seemed too dark.  One day, I found I thought more of these things than of his death.  It will be the same with Hawke.”

Varric sighed.  “That seems impossible.”

“For now,” Cassandra said, finishing her drink.  “In the meantime, you do not have to go through this alone.  You _should not_ go through this alone.  We are here to support you in more than just a fight.”

“Thank you, Cassandra.”

She pushed back her glass, saying, “Thank you for the company, Varric, but I should turn in.  I am leading an early-morning training tomorrow for the new recruits.”

“Goodnight, Lady Seeker.”

“Goodnight, Master Tethras.”

He took a deep breath, her scent of chantry incense and leather polish still hanging in the air.  With a slow, careful hand, he began to write, “Dear Fenris, I do not know to say this - for once, I am at a loss for words - so I’ll just come right out with it.  Hawke is dead.  She died fighting to save lives, to keep Thedas and maybe the whole world safe from evil.  I know we’d all expect nothing less from her.”


	5. Because some things never change.

_Well, shit.  Hawke died saving Thedas.  Bianca came back into his life just to tell him that she’s the reason the Templars have red lyrium and Corypheus has the Wardens … What’s left?  Is Bartrand going to come back from the dead to say he started the fires in Kirkwall?  Is his father going to come back to sell the Inquisition out to Corypheus?!  Is his father Corypheus?!  To be fair, he’d never seen them in the same place at the same time..._

Varric’s rambling thoughts twanged and broke along with the aiming module he was trying to replace.  They were camped at the base of Lake Luthias, the sounds of the waterfall drowning out everything but the incessant barrage of Varric’s own thoughts.  Days of scaling stone and fighting lyrium-laced demons only to learn that it was Bianca all along, the one person in the world he was certain he could trust.  The one part of his life he thought he couldn’t screw up any more.  Wasn’t that the point of running away?  That their love would always remain some perfectly preserved relic.

_Turns out that relic is every bit as corrupted as the Deep Roads themselves.  Well done, Varric!_

To make matters worse, his companions would not stop asking questions about Bianca.  Apparently Varric's love life was more interesting than Red Templars dancing with the Empress.

"So your crossbow is named Bianca, after the woman who designed it?" the Iron Bull asked from where he stood beside the falls.  From the rocks above his head, Sera took a running jump, flipping through his horns, her bow taut.  The arrow went flying wide to the left, nearly cutting through Dorian's shoulder as he circled the lake, picking blood lotus and spindleweed to take back to Skyhold.

"Watch it!" he cried.

"Sorry!" Sera called back with a mischievous grin.  "Well, nearly, this time.  At least I cleared your horns."

"Another go?" Bull replied, offering her a boost back to her perch.  He glanced back at Varric as he vaulted her onto the rocks.

"Yes," Varric said sharply.  "Bianca made Bianca."

"That is so hot," Bull murmured.

"I'll pass along your approval," Varric replied.

"So are you two still ... together?" the Inquisitor asked from beside him.  She was sitting between Varric and Cassandra, who was stretched out on the grass, a long, red gash on her leg currently emanating a soft green glow.  Cassandra had been struck by a Templar Shadow just outside the door to the Deep Roads.  She had still managed to bash the thing onto the rocks with her shield, but Bull had had to carry her out, and grudgingly she had agreed to let the Inquisitor heal her wounds before they returned to Skyhold.  Cole and Solas had agreed to scout ahead while they brought fresh supplies for the refugees at the crossroads, while the rest of them squatted in the nearby scouts' camp.

Varric glanced back at Cassandra, watching as the green glow soaked into her skin, muscle and tendons slipping across each other as the wound began to seal up.

“Sort of depends on your definition of ‘together,’” he replied flatly.  “Officially, we can’t be within three hundred miles of one another.  Violating that tends to result in assassins, explosions, and me losing a few pints of blood.”

“And unofficially?” the Inquisitor asked.

“We still manage to see each other occasionally, as this outing demonstrates.  Mostly we write letters.”

“I thought I heard her mention a husband,” Cassandra groaned, slowing lifting and bending her leg.

“Yes, she does have one of those,” Varric replied slowly, fighting her gaze.  “Nice guy, her family approves of him, yadda, yadda, yadda.”

“Does that not … complicate your being together?” Cassandra added.

“You’ve heard the phrase, ‘beggars can’t be choosers,’ Seeker?” he snapped back.

He finally met her eyes, cold and disapproving, and was instantly overcome with shame and self-loathing.  It took all of his self-control not to dive for the lake and start frantically scrubbing himself from head to toe.

Cassandra said nothing, but reached out for the Inquisitor’s shoulder, slowing pushing herself to her feet.  She tested her weight on the healed leg a few times, the others pausing from their various distractions to watch her progress.

“How does it feel?” the Inquisitor asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Better,” Cassandra replied, “Thank you.  You were correct; I should not have traveled back on it.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” the Inquisitor said with a grin.  “Well, that, and closing rifts, and general inquisiting.”

Sera broke with laughter, motioning to Bull to give her another boost.  “Knew it was something important like that.”

Bull laughed as well, tossing Sera back onto the rocks.  Dorian waved his arms in mock surrender as she took another flying leap.  This time, she never even managed to release her shot, her foot catching on the far tip of Bull’s left horn, causing her to swing, bow and all, straight around into his face.

Dorian nearly collapsed in laughter, Sera being quick to join in as she fought to untangle her bowstring from Bull’s horn.

“Brilliant!” Dorian exclaimed, “The Red Templars will certainly never see that move coming!”

Varric managed a snort of a laugh, even with Cassandra’s icy stare still on him.  For her part, she simply sighed, saying, “I’ll take watch.  I should like to stretch my legs.”

“I’ll come with you,” the Inquisitor said, allowing Cassandra to lean into her shoulder as the pair started up the narrow path to the Lake.

“Huh,” Bull muttered as soon as they were out of earshot, “In retrospect, maybe Bianca wasn’t the best topic to bring up around the Seeker.”

Sera shrugged from where she had settled on Bull’s shoulder.  “You brought it up, Big Boy.”

“Didn’t think she’d be quite so … _Seeker_ … about the whole thing.”

“Cassandra needs to learn that not everyone lives by her standards,” Varric grumbled, “If my pathetic excuse for a love life can help her realize that, then all the better.  At least someone’s learning something from it.”

“Normally I would agree with you,” Dorian said, helping one of the scouts to box up his cuttings, “But in this case, I would suspect that Cassandra’s disapproval is a bit more than just that your relationship with Bianca fails to adhere to the Chantry’s laws regarding the sanctity of marriage.”

“Sure,” Varric replied gruffly, restringing Bianca.  “The Seeker knows what’s best for everyone’s life.  If she wants to try to dictate mine, she’s welcome to it.  Hell, she can even fight Bianca for the right.”

A strange expression passed between Dorian, the Iron Bull, and Sera, still balanced on Bull’s shoulder.

“What?” Varric barked.

Dorian sighed, grabbing a bottle of wine and coming to take the Inquisitor’s spot beside him.  He poured out several cups, handing one to Varric.

“I suspect, my friend, that for a writer, you are perhaps not all that observant.”

Sera and Bull nodded seriously, Bull carefully folding his knees and settling onto a rock without disturbing Sera’s perch.

Varric continued to stare from one strange expression to the next.  “What the hell are you all on about?”

 


	6. And because they might not make it through.

_Two weeks to fight through elven jungle, fighting some ancient elven race who were supposed to have disappeared eons ago, in order to beat Corypheus to a shiny pool of Maker know’s what, that apparently contained the collected consciousness of a few thousand years’ of elven rule, which were all now rattling around in the head of Morrigan, who was not, let’s be honest, exactly warm and fuzzy to start with._

Varric shuddered.  This was so far beyond making any sense that even ‘nonsense’ felt like an unsatisfying term.   _Impossible, maybe?_  Except it was possible.  He had been there.  He’d watch Morrigan swallow up that pool, and then followed her and the Inquisitor through a mirror in order to escape a darkspawn who had just exploded and come back from the dead.

He stumbled down from his chambers and across the Skyhold courtyard, barely aware of the faces that passed him.  Alternating waves of anxiety and excitement seemed to have overtaken the stronghold ever since their startling return, appearing through a mirror in the old Chantry hall Morrigan had taken over for her research.  They managed to beat back even the earliest scouts from the front lines at Arbor Wilds, a coincidence that had sparked all kinds of rumors.  In the three days they’d been back, Varric had already heard that Morrigan transformed into a dragon and flew them to Skyhold, that the Inquisitor had opened a rift that swallowed the Temple of Mithal whole, and that the whole lot of them were deserters, who had fled the battlefield at the first sign of danger.  

Cullen’s forces had still won the day, despite their apparent desertion - he and Leliana had returned with the bulk of their troops that morning, and since then, they, Josephine, Morrigan and the Inquisitor had been holed up in the war room, presuming discussing whatever mad visions were now pouring through Morrigan’s head.

Varric had been heading rather unconsciously towards Herald’s Rest, but paused across the path, surprised to see a familiar figure perched on the thatched roof of the adjacent building.  Feeling suddenly both anxious and content, he slipped past the crowds of soldiers and scouts in the tavern, grabbing a couple of pints from Cabot before heading up to the upper level, slipping open one of the large, bay windows in Sera’s makeshift-apartment-slash-boutique and carefully making his way across the slanted rooftop.

“Care for some company?” he called, offering out one of the pints.

Cassandra balked, clearly confused by his presence.  She had shed most of her armor, and was wrapped instead in one of the scout’s cloaks, her arms bare against the cold, mountain air.

“How did you?...”

“I saw you from the stairs,” he replied, handing her her drink.  “I thought you might like some company, but I can leave you be, if you prefer?”

“No, please,” she replied quickly, “The tavern was too crowded, too many young soldiers.  But I’d be grateful for some … other … company.”

“It’s scary, isn’t it?  Seeing how excited some of them are?”

“I remember being that age.  Excitement is an easy way to overcome panic.”

“Well, we certainly have no shortages of reasons to panic,” Varric said, staring off across the courtyard.

“And cause for excitement.  We struck a great blow against Corypheus at Arbor Wilds.  We have stopped the Wardens from acquiring a demon army for him, cut off the Templars from their supply of red lyrium, and now we have denied him the Well of Sorrows, as well.”

“Giving it instead to Morrigan,” Varric added, “Because that’s definitely a better option.”

“I admit, Morrigan is … unsettling, yes, but she has given us no reason to doubt her.  Leliana herself verified the role Morrigan played in stopping the second Blight. And if she had not taken the power of the Well, it would have been the Inquisitor who would have had to do so, without any knowledge of what it entailed.  Now you are just finding reasons to be pessimistic.”

“Yeah, I do that,” Varric replied.

“Since when?”

Varric took a long draught of his drink, feeling the calming warmth of intoxication sinking into his muscles.  “Since always, I suppose.  I have a history of looking out for the worst.  Makes it easier to run away.”

“I would not have thought so?”

“Really?  Because someone once told me that all I do is run away from my problems.”

He glanced at Cassandra - she appeared genuinely bothered by his statement.  Her brow furrowing, she continued, “When I met you, you weren’t running away.  If anything, you seemed to be rather stubbornly waiting for someone to come interrogate you about Hawke.”

“Yes, well, I do love being held prisoner.”

“You published a book about your association with her,” Cassandra said.  “You were not hard to track down.  You were hardly dismissive about your role in what happened in Kirkwall.  As I recall, you more or less took full responsibility.  You and your brother, anyway.”

“It was our doing.  And again, I don’t think I can take much credit for not running away when I was being held captive by the Chantry,” Varric replied, turning back to stare into the courtyard.

“You neither ran away nor gave up your friend’s location.  In fact, your steadfastness was quite impressive.  Frustrating at the time, I admit, but impressive, all the same.  I have seen few others stand up to the Seekers as you did.”

“Still, held prisoner.  It’s not the most impressive example of staying put.”

“And after?”

“After _what?”_ Varric asked, finally meeting Cassandra’s gaze again.

“The rift.  The Temple of Sacred Ashes.  The Inquisitor falling out of the sky.  I was there to save the Divine, and whoever else might have survived.  Solas was fascinated by the rift.  Even the Inquisitor needed to stay and fight, to prove her innocence.  Why did you?”

The question made him feel like they were back in that small room in Kirkwall, and he found himself flustered under her gaze.  He shrugged.  “People were in trouble.  The sky was on fire.  I wasn’t going to just turn around and leave.”

“And after that?  After the rift over the Temple was closed?  After the Inquisition began?  You had no stake in the Chantry, or the Inquisition, or even the mages’ rebellion.”

“The Templars were using red lyrium.  Red lyrium is only in the world because of Bartrand and me.”

“You could have just agreed to help the Inquisition track the red lyrium.  You could have even agreed only to accompany the Inquisitor on raids against the Red Templars.  Red lyrium doesn’t explain why you helped us track down the Wardens, or stop an assassination at the Winter Palace, or why you were with us in Arbor Wilds.”

“The world might be ending!  I’m not going to stand idly by and watch it burn!  If nothing else, all my stuff is here!”

He felt like a petulant child, explaining why he’d stayed out past his curfew.  He could feel his cheeks flushing, the words pounding through his chest.

Cassandra smiled, and his chest was pounding even harder.

“My point, Varric, is that at no point have you run away.  I have been beside you since Kirkwall, and no stage have you run.  At no stage have you done anything but committed yourself, risked your life, for a cause that you claim to have no stake in beyond just not wanting to see the world destroyed.  That hardly strikes me as someone who runs away from their problems.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted, uncertain why his words were still so begrudging.  “You are, after all, the Seeker of Truth.”

She finally broke her gaze with him, her eyes dropping to the pint glass in her hands, which she had long since emptied.  The silence hung between them for several beats before she asked, “May I ask - who was it that told you that?  That you were one to always run from your problems?”

“Bianca,” he replied, instantly regretting mentioning her as Cassandra’s expression darkened again.  But he hadn’t lied to her about anything since Kirkwall.  There didn’t seem any reason to start now.  “The night the merchant guild’s injunction came down.  ‘There goes Varric Tethras, running away from his feelings again.’  That was the last thing she said to me that night.”

Cassandra scoffed, her eyes still locked on her glass.  “Then I consider this nothing more than another reason to think that she is an utter fool.”

Something in his brain must have snapped.  Before he could even really process what he was doing, he had reached out for her, cupping her cheek, his fingers running through her thick, black locks, pulling her close, pressing his lips against her lips.

She jolted, pulling away from him, her face awash in confusion and shock.

_Well, this is it, he thought.  Chased by Red Templars, pride demons, darkspawn, and ghouls, and this is how Varric Tethras dies.  Thrown off a roof by an angry Seeker._

_Not that it wasn’t worth it._

But he didn’t die. She didn’t toss him off the roof or throttle him or even smack him.  She smiled, and, putting down her glass, she reached out for his other hand and pulled it across her waist.  He pulled her closer, feeling the taut muscles in her side, feeling the warmth flushing across her cheeks and the quickening of her pulse under his fingertips.  Her lips were soft and sweet and parted easily against his tongue.  Her hands wrapped around his thick arms, her fingertips digging into his skin as his tongue met hers, sending sharp shocks across his spine.

“So here’s where you two got to.”

The Inquisitor’s voice was like a wave, knocking him back into reality.  Cassandra’s face was flushed, her gaze immediately dropping to the ground just as quickly as her hands dropped to her sides.  He released her face, but his other hand lingered against her stomach, lightly tracing the lines of her flesh.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need your input.  Meeting in the war room.”

Varric and Cassandra nodded, all three still pointedly not meeting each others’ gaze as they followed the Inquisitor out of Herald’s Rest.

“I really am sorry to interrupt, for what it’s worth,” the Inquisitor murmured.

Cassandra let out a sound very much like a growl.  “Enough.”

“I’ve nothing more to say,” the Inquisitor said quickly, a massive grin splitting across her face.

“Good,” Varric replied.

“Although, if two people about whom I cared a great deal were also to admit that they cared for one another, that would fill me with nothing but joy.”

Varric glanced at Cassandra - the flush had faded from her cheeks, but a soft smile still lingered on her lips.  She caught his eyes, and her smile brightening.

They followed the Inquisitor in silence across the Great Hall, still swimming with people, and down the corridor, past Josephine’s office, to the War Room.  The large, stone space was already crowded with people.  Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen were at their normal spots, circling the main war map, Morrigan before them, clearly waiting for the Inquisitor to speak first.  Sera, Dorian, and the Iron Bull were in one corner, Dorian pressed ever so slightly into the Iron Bull’s side, Sera bouncing anxiously on her toes before them.  The First Enchanter Vivienne stood in the center of the room, as gorgeous and unruffled as ever, but her eyes were locked on the war map, each breath short and sharp.  Cole and Solas were in the other corner, both staring at Morrigan as if she would unhinge her jaw and consume them at any moment.

“So, boss?” Iron Bull asked.

The Inquisitor came and stood beside Morrigan, her expression serious.  “Based on what she’s … learned from the Well of Souls, Morrigan believes she’s found a way to cut off Corypheus from regenerating.”

“How?” Solas asked.

“Tis his dragon,” Morrigan answered, “Tis no true archdemon, but merely a mockery of one.  I believe, once slain, Corypheus will return to mere darkspawn.”

“So step one is kill a dragon?” Dorian asked.

“Yes,”

“Fantastic!” Bull cheered.

“Do we have a plan of how to do so?” Cassandra asked.  She was still standing beside Varric, and he could feel the heat of her hand, pressed ever so lightly against his own.

“We do,” Morrigan said.

“But it’s complicated.  It will take a coordinated effort, and there’s no guarantee it’s going to work,” the Inquisitor added.  “And if it doesn’t, we could lose people, and Corypheus would still be effectively immortal.”

Her words hung over them, and for a moment, Varric felt like he was back underground, a mountain of rock tumbling down on him.  Cassandra slipped her hand into his, her fingers intertwining with his.

“So, go on, Inquisitor,” he said finally, breaking through the silence.  “What’s the plan?”

 


End file.
